The Journey
by The Page Of Cups
Summary: A romance-tinted character study: two voices reflecting on love and on life. Post-Gluhen era.
1. Part I: Footsteps

The most trying aspect of life is change. Loss is change. Unforeseen complications are change. New developments that require adaptation are change. The inevitable lack of constancy in life is a beautiful blessing that paves the way for progress, and it's a heartbreaking tragedy that eventually destroys everything held dear. As a country we treasure the phenomenon of transience, yet as individuals we mourn whenever it uproots our cherished habits and familiarities.

When life split the paths of Ken-kun, Yohji-kun and Aya-kun away from my own, saying goodbye was one of the hardest things I've done. Aya-kun in particular was difficult. Since the age of fourteen, I've looked to him as a role model and a foundation of strength, and I've always considered him a dear friend. I walked away from the harbor that cloudy afternoon feeling as grateful as ever for the chance to have known him, even as I felt an ache in my chest knowing his footsteps would no longer fall beside mine.

When I first had the thought to learn about his sister, she was a simple curiosity. As the motivation, inspiration, and namesake for one of the most influential figures in my life, I wondered what exactly he'd been fighting for all these years, only to leave it behind once he had it. I was prepared to keep my distance, with no plans to engage her on a personal level. Had I thought for a single moment that she'd be as observant as her brother, I never would have used the pretense of buying flowers to investigate her.

Girls have an impeccable talent for ruining plans. What I learned about Aya was that she has too much in common with the last girl I loved. Her personality is softer, but she has the same strong spirit unafraid of challenge. She's determined, perseverant, and highly focused towards realizing her desires. Lovers are no exception; she's the kind of woman who hones in on one and pursues him relentlessly, no matter how he tries to push her away. At that point, there are only two possible outcomes for such a woman: success or death.

Aya honed in on me. She pursued relentlessly, I tried to push away, and sixteen months later, I wondered as she turned the light off if marriage would really prove the better ending.

It wasn't unpleasant. Aya is affectionate, vibrant, witty and playful. She has a sweet temper and girlish charm. Her laughter is infectious, and she declares contests over whether she can make me catch it. I don't laugh easily anymore, but she can usually make me smile.

We live with Grandfather in the country, a peaceful distance from the crime and tragedy circulating through the heart of Tokyo. It's not ideal for privacy, but it serves its purpose, and I think I should live here for the remainder of his days. It's generous of him to let us stay here, considering he doesn't like Aya-- she's too modern for his tastes. I'm sure if he'd had his way, I would have married through arrangement and selected a bride that increased our wealth or strengthened political ties.

Two years ago, I wouldn't have minded that. It would have made everything much simpler; I doubt it would have taken two weeks to have sex, for starters. Aya probably thinks I avoided it because I didn't know what was I doing. The truth is I couldn't look at her and not think about her brother, who has been a source of insecurity ever since I returned to the name Takatori. Even after his explicit acceptance of my choices that day, I couldn't escape the idea that he would probably truly hate me for this one.

The reason for that insecurity was a complication in its own right. I wasn't going to tell her about my uncle, but I'm in no place to criticize curiosity about family, or the deep-rooted need she felt to know why she no longer had it. I'm in no better place to withhold the information; she had a right to know, and Aya-kun, I know, would expect nothing less from me.

I still thought it smarter to not mention I knew him. I reveal things to solve problems, not to create them-- the same rationale behind my never telling her of my duties as Persia. I intend to keep it that way.

I don't think about her while I'm working; I've gotten much better at keeping my personal life separate from my professional one. I haven't added her photo to my desk, and I finally removed the one with my old teammates from it. The reason is simple: emotions are a weakness at my job. I no longer allow any sign of possessing them there (Knight has had to learn this _entirely_ too well).

Sometimes the two sides of my life can't help mingling, last week for example. I fired the "other" secretary I kept as a politician for being an unwitting accessory to espionage and a hostage conspiracy. Unfortunate that he wouldn't give up his friendship with the man using him to investigate my schedule with Aya, but I can't fire the real culprit-- he doesn't work for me. And the threat wasn't largescale enough to merit using Weiß or Crashers, which left no other options despite his excellent job performance. I draw the line when my wife's or grandfather's safety is compromised; nothing is more important to me than protecting my family.

Rex has been a more long-term cause of overlap, and a far greater source of conflict, but I won't fire her-- she understands me too well. That's probably what makes her seem like competition to Aya, who becomes bitterly jealous when I choose Rex over her as my escort to social events. It's a childish reaction, but perhaps unsurprising from someone used to getting her way. We've argued over it several times, but I've never apologized for it. I don't regret facing my responsibilities, and between Rex's gun and Aya's smile, I would rather have the gun there.

The choice hasn't gone unnoticed. The general population has taken the liberty of presuming Rex to be my mistress. It isn't true, but I must admit, it is convenient. No one suspects a mistress to be a weapon, and when a terrorist group opened fire at a campaign dinner last year, Rex took down two of the gunmen before getting shot in the shoulder of her firing arm.

Eight people died that night. As I led Rex to the ambulance, I noticed that she'd lost her gun in our escape. Expectable given the location of her wound, and ultimately not a concern. Guns are easily replaced.

I stayed at the hospital until she was out of surgery, then had the two hour commute home; it was nearly two o'clock when I finally called 'Tadaima.' I vaguely registered the sound of the news from the family room television, and almost got the first shoe off before Aya assaulted me in her pajamas, distressed, crying and shrieking profanities at me while she hugged me so hard that it hurt.

I realized two things at that point. The first was that I'd forgotten to turn my phone back on. The second was that I really ought to start calling home after emergencies. Life truly is different now.

The adjustments haven't been easy. I'm a private person and like having time to myself. With so little time outside of sleep and work, a wife that wants to spend time together seems like an imposition when all I want is to be alone. Before her, solitude was easy to find-- it was there whenever I wanted it and no one cared. After getting married, I started having to reserve my bath as personal time to decompress. I allow myself to be selfish about that.

In exchange for that hour of selfishness every night, on Sunday I belong entirely to her. Our daylong dates vary from week to week, but they always include sleeping in and sex. I didn't like the lack of productivity at first, but I don't mind being glued to her as much as I thought I would. I've spent most of my life being valued as an asset. Being around someone that so adamantly wants me for nothing more than company is strangely addictive.

Most days end with that sense of appreciation for her presence. She has dinner ready when I get home, manages the housework while I'm away, and at least passively offers herself almost every night. (The less passive nights are the ones that worry me-- those are never pretty.) Every so often she gets in a bad mood that leaves her too needy, too picky, or simply too hormonal, but those days are comparatively few. I can usually tolerate it; if she becomes unbearable I simply stop speaking to her. I consider that the better alternative to losing my temper. I'm careful not to do that around her.

We don't always get along even with that caution. Skirmishes seem inevitable, usually over something petty like chopsticks, the trigger for our first one. She doesn't hold them correctly, and I made the mistake of pointing it out to her. _Who said this isn't the right way_ turned to _'Almost anyone I could ask' obviously doesn't know this way is easier_, which became _Will the people at those silly dinner parties really even notice if I'm not holding them right?_, and looking back on it, I don't know why it happened at all because it was so stupid. I wouldn't have expected the most conflict to arise from the trivial-- I consider myself more mature than that. On the other hand, if it means there aren't more important matters of disagreement then I think I should be grateful. A little immaturity is probably a fair price in that case.

Some of Aya's habits don't cause disagreement, but they are incredibly strange. The most prominent is her after-dinner ritual of Häagen-Dazs on the family room sofa. It sounds innocuous until the catch: she doesn't use a spoon, preferring instead to lick it straight from the cup. Grandfather despises it, and I don't blame him. Watching her clean the container of its contents using nothing but her tongue is bizarre, disgusting, and confoundingly erotic. It leaves her sticky from nose to chin, and she's the only one who will ever know I steal a taste before handing her a damp cloth.

She takes a bath after her ice cream; I go to bed, where she'll join me later with her hair still wet. Her feet are always freezing, and she always presses them against my legs to warm them up, having no regard for whether I'm already asleep. She puts her arms around me and hugs my middle, or if I'm particularly unlucky, slips her hand between the buttons of my nightshirt and traces the katana scar on my chest with her fingertips. She's eerily drawn to that scar her brother created. It's terribly uncomfortable but I never complain-- her feet are always cold, but her hands, at least, are always warm.

She kisses me a couple of minutes later and scoots back to her half of the bed, keeping my hand as a souvenir. She fidgets to become comfortable, followed by the muscles of her hand spasming against my palm, signaling her descent into sleep. I tell her goodnight but lay awake to watch, because there's a painful, unavoidable guilt in those moments that she submits herself to unconsciousness, completely trusting, and utterly oblivious that she's sleeping with one of the most ruthless men in Japan. The ironic part is she probably wouldn't believe it even if I told her.

Sometimes, when she retreats to her own side of the bed for the night, I notice the sheets are wet under my shoulder from her hair, and use the excuse to move my pillow a little closer. I'll never be able to admit it, but I like to be near her.

For the past two years, this has been the pattern of my life. My situation is still the same as it was before I met her: I'm living with my grandfather, commanding Weiß, pursuing politics, and occasionally pissing off Knight. Rex is still my secretary, and Ken-kun, Yohji-kun, and Aya-kun are still nothing but a memory.

Yet I can't help the feeling that things are different, if only in subtle ways. I don't spend as long in the bath anymore. I secretly anticipate finding her on the sofa with ice cream around her mouth. And Sunday has always been my favorite day of the week, but lately, I've found myself appreciating it just a little bit more.

She doesn't know its significance, but on our most recent date, I took her to the harbor where I last spoke with her brother. We left our shoes under the dock and walked the beach with joined hands, letting the tide tickle the tops of our feet while wet sand pushed between our toes. The clouds sat on the horizon like a thin afterthought of backdrop for the rising sun, which enflamed the sky with pale shades of orange. The breeze kept the air comfortably cool, and gently wisped the hem of Aya's sundress against the skin of my calves.

When it was time to retrieve our shoes, I turned around but hesitated to move. For a few moments, I stood in silence beside my wife and looked back on the path we'd drawn through the sand, a pair of footprints side by side, stretching behind us as far as the eye could see. The tide was slowly washing them down to nothing, and when I thought that in a few hours they'd be completely gone, I felt vaguely depressed by the reminder that nothing can last forever. But something about seeing how far we'd come felt satisfying all the same.

The journey began on a harbor, when I lost the most amazing person I've ever known.


	2. Part II: Scars

I was a little self-conscious the first time I bared myself to Mamoru. Aside from the bit of belly flab under my navel, I have some scar tissue on my right leg and hip from a car accident just before my sixteenth birthday. I'm not really ashamed of it, but I worried that he might find me less attractive for it.

It was a silly thing to worry about; if only I'd known the sorts of scars all to his own Mamoru had hiding under that professional wardrobe. It must have been a violent past he suffered, something much worse than what caused mine. His body is a diary of war, scribbled with bullet wounds and vicious cuts. They're kind of sexy, in that ruggedly dangerous bad-boy sense, but I have to admit I could do without the two-inch vertical line so frighteningly close to his heart.

He avoided sex that night, opting instead to go to bed early after such an eventful and tiring day. He sat on the left half of the bed, kissed me goodnight, and turned to lay on his right side, the only position he finds comfortable.

His pattern continued every night for the next two weeks. He offered an excuse for 'not tonight,' took the left side of the bed, and slept on his right side with nothing more than a quiet "Oyasumi." It was a little lonely but it didn't hurt, because I could tell that the avoidance wasn't out of disinterest. He was definitely noticing me, and his kisses went to bed hungry. What I took from his actions and expression was nothing but an inexplicable, paralyzing tangle of hesitation.

It's an understanding I can only explain as a communication that transcended words. It comes from the same sort of bond where a cherished someone can call, and even if you haven't seen him in years, even if he never speaks, you still know who it is. The message wasn't so much in what he said, but in what he didn't. Finally, I weighed the situation, considered my options, and sprung for the simplest and most obvious solution I could see.

I hid his pajamas.

By the time he realized they weren't in his drawer it was too late. And thus, Takatori Mamoru's wife learned that she had married an Absolute Virgin.

I shouldn't have been surprised-- it _was_ after two weeks of abstinent marriage. But I was anyway. I hadn't expected such a thing from someone so wealthy, prominent and influential. In fact, I'd expected quite the opposite. He's young, attractive, and has excellent social status; finding interested women should be no problem at all. What a curious man to hold such an advantage in seduction and to never have made use of it.

Yet, there it was: Takatori Mamoru sat on the bed with me looking quite perfectly awkward. For someone so confident and commanding in public, he was amazingly clumsy at sex. It was really sort of adorable-- I finally had to grab his hand and give instructions for how to touch and where, while he blushed furiously and reduced his commentary to monosyllabic mumblings. I think I might have upset his pride that night.

It was worth it.

In spite of how ruffled he acted for the next three days, I don't think he regrets it either, or heaven help us, we might still be going to bed for nothing but sleep.

Well, I sleep. Mamoru doesn't get very much-- he has to set an early alarm to leave for work on time. He's programmed the beast for 4:36 every morning but Sunday, our designated sleep-in day. It's an awful rising time, but with a two-hour commute, it really can't be helped. He disturbs the mattress when he gets up, and leaving the covers lets in a nip of cool air down my legs. I miss the extra warmth of his body once he's gone, but it isn't enough to stop me from falling back asleep-- purely on his behalf, of course.

I do housework in my pajamas after I get up. I watch my favorite daytime soap during lunch, then get dressed and run errands before coming home to make dinner for Mamoru and his grandfather. I don't like the old geezer, but he's part of the package, so I make the best of it.

Sometimes when I'm out, I pass by the quaint flower shop across from the bakery that reminds me of the one I managed a few years ago. It makes me a little nostalgic thinking about those days, working with Sakura-chan and going out for crepes after closing shop, or maybe the ice cream parlor where we talked about my brother over parfaits and sundaes. I wonder if he knows I got married-- it was all over the news, so I can't imagine he never saw. Someday I'll meet him again, and tell him just what a booger he is for not coming to my wedding.

My wedding. I even met my husband at that old flower shop, finally dragging him out on a date after deciding he was too shy to ask me himself. He tried to deny his attraction, but I knew he was interested. Why else would a guy regularly visit a flower shop of all places and inconspicuously watch the girl who worked there, all without ever asking for more than to be rung up?

He couldn't answer the question either. That's how everything started.

I hadn't expected to like him as much as I did. He went against everything I'd ever fantasized about when I was younger. I told myself I'd find a charming, indulgent man who lavished me with attention and let me have my way all the time. Someone dashing, romantic, adventurous and spirited-- someone that spoiled me with presents, smiled whenever he saw me, and came home from work bearing roses just because he could. And here I am with my anal-retentive, difficult, stuffy, stubborn and scowling old fart fifty years too young, and I wouldn't trade him for the world. Life is so funny sometimes.

But Mamoru intrigued me to an intensity Prince Charming would never touch. From the first date, his enigmatic personality was captivating. I'm still not sure if he was uneasy or simply playing hard-to-get through that parting conversation at my door, where he made every effort to escape without so much as a kiss. Admit it: you enjoyed yourself-- good night. You're no fun, that's no way to end a date!-- I never claimed to be fun. Well, I _do_-- That's not a very professional way to treat your customers. I guess you'll have to be more than my customer in that case-- I need to leave.

I would swear it was banter if he hadn't been so honestly surprised when I pointed out he was smiling.

I didn't let him leave until he'd agreed to come over for dinner that Thursday. What can I say? His mysteriousness was attractive. And it still is, along with his warm roots of hair gliding between my fingers, his sleeping face under moonlight from the bedroom window, and his quiet gasps and shudders when we make love.

I admit, the mystery isn't always a good thing. Like those nights I've particularly missed him, when my fingertips seek out that terrible scar near his heart from a past he won't share with me. It's a little lonely knowing he'll probably never explain what happened, leaving me only to wish there had been some way I could have prevented it. It's not that I expect him to tell me everything, especially something painful, but he seems to go out of his way to hide himself-- even on mundane subjects. Work is always fine, and then I catch him later with his fingers against the part of his forehead that suffers headaches. I'll whine at him when something's wrong, and he usually finds something to do about it. It sounds silly, but I wish he would complain once in a while! I'd like to have the chance to return the favor.

He hides his temper, too. It seems like a shame sometimes; I'd love a good old-fashioned shouting match. Then when all the tension was exploding I'd tackle him to the bed and we could have the most passionate make-up sex that ever was. It'd be incredible.

Mamoru's passion is in politics, though. He isn't a romantic person at heart like I am. Really, we're something of an odd couple all over, even setting aside personality differences. He's younger. I'm taller. His family was ultimately responsible for destroying mine-- sometimes, I can't help wondering if I've got the teeniest residual anger and grudge about that. I know it isn't right to blame him for something he didn't do, but he's the only one left to resent.

And then, he's the only one left period. That makes him just like me, and I have a hard time hating him because of that. Underneath the oddness, we're actually very even.

There are other unpleasant aspects, though I think I've been happy overall. We'll pick at each other for stupid things, like if the idea of giving me a foot rub is really so unpleasant, and squabble over the best way to care for orchids or why we can't have a pet cat. The irritation lingers in the air for a few minutes and we move on, usually with neither one of us ever apologizing. It's kind of nice that way.

A few of the arguments haven't been so insignificant. Naturally, the one I most remember is the one I'm most ashamed of. I'm not an insecure person, about myself or about Mamoru's feelings for me. But for a long time, it was difficult to accept how close he is to his secretary. They have a strong bond, and I've always intuitively felt that she's in love with him. I haven't talked with her much, but I do watch them when they're on television together, and I can see the way she looks at him.

It probably wouldn't have bothered me if Mamoru hadn't deliberately taken her instead of me to every event, no matter how I tried to get him to let me go with him. Asking, begging, sweet-talking, even friendly bribes, but he never would choose me. And I could see no reason why except that he simply preferred her company. After all, he spends all day with her at work, then he comes home and wants to be by himself. It hurt that on those special occasions after work was over, he still wanted to be with her, and it made me worry that one day, he'd decide to leave me. Life has already shown me once that love won't stop a person from doing that.

The tension built over the course of a year, and one night, in those last minutes before he left for a campaign dinner, it was too much, and we had a fight. Mamoru left, I spent a few hours upset at him, then turned on the news to catch the highlights.

There'd been a shooting.

I've known from the start that with a job in the public eye, there was always a chance something dangerous like this would happen. But it's so easy to stop thinking about it, in the same way most people don't think about the chance of an accident when they get in the car. And from the moment I fell for Mamoru, I've not put a thought to anything but wanting to be along for the ride.

I spent the entire night glued to the television. Five confirmed dead. Six, then seven and eight. Headlines everywhere, speculating on the identities of the terrorists, reflecting on the horror and tragedy of the attack. No one had names for the dead. And Mamoru wasn't answering his phone.

By the time he came home, I was half-convinced I'd never see him again. I'm sure I overwhelmed the poor man when he was already so drained. But I think I understood a little after that night why he never lets me come with him.

I haven't felt jealous of his secretary ever since. Actually, I feel a little sorry for her.

He had another secretary until last week. Heaven knows why he kept two in the first place unless his office is just that busy, but the termination's generated a heavy backlash of criticism, and there's talk of a lawsuit. The claim runs that Mamoru fired him for refusing to end one of his friendships. The orders came, were protested, and... that was it. The man was fired.

I don't know why he did it-- he said the details weren't important, a sure sign that they were. It still upsets me to think about the callousness of it, though looking back, I shouldn't have let it decide I would skip my ice cream.

Because what Mamoru and the news won't tell you is that when he came home, he spent almost a full hour sitting by the window. I tried to approach him, but he politely requested I just leave him alone. Abiding by those requests is one of the hardest parts about being married to him.

The publicity is the other hard part. Marriage to a rising political celebrity is terrible in a way; thanks to media reports like that one, there are people who think he's heartless without knowing him at all. It's painful to see those kinds of accusations against someone you love. Sometimes, I worry he's even started believing them himself. I suppose in a way he has to, or he'd never convince people to take him seriously. I admire his strength; there aren't many people who can so successfully lock away their emotions and preferences to do what's necessary, no matter how cold it makes them appear. He has a thick skin. I guess scars will toughen a person like that.

I can expect him home at 7 on the days he doesn't go out drinking with his fellow politicians. I greet him with a kiss, take his coat while he slips his shoes off, then fussily loosen whatever scarf or high collar he's got on. Every day one is there, a little too tight for my liking, and hiding the peculiar faint lines circling his throat. They're around his arms and legs, too, all of them difficult to see even when exposed. I've always wondered about them, but in the end, the knowledge that the crossing point of the lines on the left side marks his neck's most sensitive spot is probably more valuable.

Actually, I think the noise alone from when I discovered it is more valuable. I'll giggle about that sound until the day I die.

We'll eat dinner together with his grandfather, then he retreats to the bath and I clean the kitchen; when I'm done, I'll curl up on the couch with my ice cream. It's secretly the highlight of my day. I relax and savor the taste of custard cream or chardonnay & raspberry, wondering all the while if Mamoru will tip my chin and take the dab that always winds up under my lip when he's done soaking. He surprised me with it the first time it happened, but it didn't take long to learn it was actually his most comfortable way of requesting a trip to the bedroom. He's unexpectedly cute sometimes. Maybe not a romantic type that takes me out for candlelit dinners or moonlit boat rides, but some of the little things he does are so endearing, I can't feel that I'm missing out.

And every once in a while, he'll break the mold, and take me on a barefoot beach walk, or leave a pair of red and white roses on my bedside dresser, just because he can.

I don't doubt he knows it's the symbol for unity.

Looking back on the last two years makes it seem like a long time since that first night when we saw each other's scars. We had so much to learn back then, even after over a year of dating, when I naively thought I had him figured out. He's surprised me over and over, whether it's a reluctance to seek intimacy, a tendency to endure negativity while hiding good intentions, or an inability to verbalize such simple feelings as "I want to be with you."

Communicating with someone like that isn't easy, but I don't mind the challenge. The more I understand him, the more rewarding I find all the effort that went into it. I'll probably never know everything about him, but I think in a way, that's the best gift he could ever give me: an undying fascination with the brilliant mystery behind those sad blue eyes.

I know he doesn't mean it that way, but it makes it easier to appreciate the lonelier parts of his secretiveness. He doesn't say much, and there's a lot he keeps from me, but I think he tells me everything I need to know. That's why I'll never ask about those scars from his past, only remind him with touch that he can't hide them from me-- but he can trust me with them. And I'll always go to bed with wet hair and cold feet, just in case he wants an excuse to sleep a little closer. Maybe one day, he'll be able to accept that he doesn't need one. This journey through life, this beautiful blessing of progress we call growth, it doesn't come in a giant leap, but in little footsteps, like the prints on a beach.

In the end, he started sleeping on the right side of the bed, never offering an explanation. I never felt the need to ask.


End file.
